


The Letter

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Stark Ranch [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cowboy Porn That Developed Feelings Damnit, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Discipline, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, HORSES!, M/M, Polyamory, Spanking, alternate universe - cowboys, paddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: You encourage me, and this is what you get.Story four of the Avengers As Cowboys Spanking and Sex fic.I hope you're proud. Are we having fun?!~~~Harley shuts the door behind him and Peter tosses his shirt and pants in the hamper, followed by his underwear, skittering into the left hand shower as fast as he can go, heart hammering.Did he- did he sign up for that?  Did he- does Peter actually want that, though?  A handprint?  A- what makes stripes?Peter tells himself to just be good, if he doesn’t want to find out.  But somewhere deep inside him, he remembers the feeling of telling Clint, I’m troubled, and he doesn’t- yeah, maybe.  Maybe he does want a handprint.“I’m so messed up,” he whispers into the hot spray, and then he snorts, because, well.  Yeah.  Look at his whole life.  The surprise plot-twist would be if he was normal.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Stark Ranch [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893331
Comments: 78
Kudos: 97





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorybannefin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorybannefin/gifts).



> First off, let's hear it for the people who gave me the prompt, all of whom WILL BE GIFTED FUTURE FICS WHEN THERE IS FLAME:  
> khory, who has the spiciest gifs, and deserves all appreciation for the niceness of her spiceness!  
> Annalyn, who encourages the best  
> personaljunkdrawer, who is as filthy as he is talented, which is a staggering amount, really
> 
> For iamwithtony, or Peter Is A Twink Fight Me on Tumblr, for the moodboard which was just *chef kiss* perfect, and came at just the right time to knock me right off my smut and into an ocean of feelings.
> 
> For my cheerreaders, Livvibee and personaljunkdrawer, for telling me it's not shit, I should not delete it
> 
> Beta'd by the Supreme Team of jf4m and mindwiped.
> 
> All remaining errors are mine.

“All right, showers and then bed,” declares Steve.

“Aww,” complains Harley, but Peter watches him open his eyes again with a smirk. Harley’s clearly exhausted. “‘S too early.”

Bucky clicks his tongue and Harley winces, rising up and muttering, “All right, all _right_. I won’t say anything.”

“G’night, boys,” says Tony.

Harley pushes past Peter, yelping, “No hug?”

“Hug,” agrees Tony, standing up and wrapping his arms around Harley. Harley sighs into it, scrubbing his cheek on Tony’s shirtfront. 

“I _am_ sorry,” he mutters again, and Peter feels his heart warm a little at the way he says it.

“I know, Half-pint,” Tony tells him. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, huh? And Steve got me trapped into a camp-out with you and the new guy this weekend.”

“The hot springs,” declares Harley eagerly.

“Maybe,” says Tony, smiling fondly at him. “Go give Sam and Clint their hug, Half-pint.”

Clint bitches about standing up while Sam opens his arms to Harley’s hug. Tony cocks a challenging eyebrow at Peter as he hesitates by the fire. “Well?” asks Tony, spreading his hands in front of him. “Free hugs. What’s not to like.”

“Trying to decide if it’s worth maybe getting bitten,” retorts Peter.

“It’s worth it,” declares Harley from the circle of Sam’s arm. “Just do it.”

Peter snorts and Harley laughs, and then Peter’s walking into Tony’s arms, too. 

“There, see?” asks Tony, craning his neck back so Peter can look up at him. “Didn’t hurt.”

“This time,” says Peter suspiciously, letting go reluctantly.

“Night, New Guy,” teases Tony.

“C’mere, me next,” says Sam, shoving Harley over to Clint, who picks him up in a dramatic, spinning hug and then dips him, making Harley giggle. Sam’s arms are comfortable, too, comfortable and comforting, and he doesn’t squeeze as tightly as Tony had. He lets Peter go and says, “Sleep well, okay?” 

Peter nods. He’ll try.

Clint smiles and opens his arms wide. “C’mon, hug it out,” he chuckles.

Peter mutters warily, “Not sure you don’t bite, either.”

“Won’t,” declares Clint.

“Might,” laughs Harley, half-way to the front door.

“Won’t, though,” Clint promises Peter.

His hug is gentle and loose, too, and he whispers, “Sweet dreams, huh?” into Peter’s ear. Peter nods and says, “You, too,” pulling back and away to follow Harley.

“Brush your teeth,” calls Bucky.

“Brushed ‘em this morning,” Harley calls over his shoulder.

“Half-pint-” warns Bucky.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it again, then,” shouts Harley, opening the door and rolling his eyes at Peter.

Peter smiles at him and walks through. 

He trails his fingers over the backs of the log chair as he toes off his boots beside Harley, who doesn’t struggle at all to get his off and ends up waiting for Peter, even though he held the door. “C’mon,” says Harley, “shower, and then bed, I’m beat.”

“Beaten,” snorts Peter. “How are you gonna- won’t it hurt?”

“Yeah, it’ll sting again,” sighs Harley, shaking his head. “But honestly? We coulda _died_ , Peter. Or one of- Tantrum was in _danger_ , and that’s on me. So I don’t mind it, so much.”

Peter thinks about that, following Harley down the tiled hallway to the shower room at the back of the first floor. Harley strips off his shirt and pants, his underwear, with the same lack of concern that he shows every night before bed, and pads to the far shower while Peter stares at his cherry-red ass with something like shock. He can see stripes across it, and, and that’s a _handprint_ , picked out in little purple and red dots on Harley’s upper thigh.

Harley shuts the door behind him and Peter tosses his shirt and pants in the hamper, followed by his underwear, skittering into the left hand shower as fast as he can go, heart hammering.

Did he- did he sign up for that? Did he- does Peter actually _want_ that, though? A handprint? A- what makes _stripes_? 

Peter tells himself to _just be good_ , if he doesn’t want to find out. But somewhere deep inside him, he remembers the feeling of telling Clint, _I’m troubled_ , and he doesn’t- yeah, maybe. Maybe he does want a handprint.

“I’m so messed up,” he whispers into the hot spray, and then he snorts, because, well. Yeah. Look at his whole life. The surprise plot-twist would be if he was _normal_.

 _You want it because you want it, it’s fine to want things,_ says the memory of Tony’s voice, and Peter knows, now, how it feels to be held in Tony’s arms, hugged by all that strength and energy. 

He knows, too, how it feels to be nuzzled by Steve, sitting on Steve’s lap, Steve telling him, _That’s part of this, too, Peter._

 _This house really needs private showers_ , he thinks resentfully.

And fewer stiff breezes.

Harley is hissing as he dries off when Peter steps out of the shower. 

“You okay?” asks Peter tentatively, wrapping the towel around himself and walking to the sinks to brush his teeth.

“Yes, it just stings like a sonuvabitch,” hisses Harley. “Hey, you ever seen a smacked ass before?”

“No,” drawls Peter, his heart hammering. 

“Well, ain’tcha curious?” asks Harley, rubbing his hair dry, wandering over. “God, my first time, I stared at my own butt for like thirty minutes in the mirror, couldn’t believe it.”

Peter feels his heart stop and then rapidly start thudding again. “You did? You didn’t- I thought, maybe your dad or whatever, back home.”

“Oh, yeah, no, Keener’s are all assholes, I told you, and he was long gone before he could ever need to give me more than a couple of swats,” says Harley casually, tossing the towel on the countertop and reaching for his own toothbrush. “I, uh, met Tony when I was just a kid, helped him with- uh, stuff, and then, well, he heard I was, well. You know. _Troubled_ , I guess, because he knows the Keeners, well, some of them, anyway, the ones in Missouri, and so he called up mama and asked her if he could help and she’d had enough of me, so she said _sure_.” Harley spits the toothpaste into the sink. “Best thing she ever did for me, saying _sure_.”

“H-how, how did you- with, uh, the, um, spankings?” stammers Peter, brushing slowly, looking at Harley in the mirror.

Harley grins, “Oh, I was young, yet, still just a kid, and, you know, actually a little asshole, and Bucky said, _I catch you messing with the horses, I’ll use my hand in ways you won’t like_ , and well. I always did like horses,” he finishes, smiling slyly. “I hollered and yelled and when he was done I said, _I’m calling the cops_ , and he said, _yeah, you do that,_ and the Steve came out to the shed and said, _what the hell is happening here_ , he swore, Peter, he really did, my hand to God.” He spits and wipes his mouth, eyes widening with how impressed he still is by that moment. Peter can feel that, too, as he puts his toothbrush away and tries to act like he can be casual about nudity, too.

“So I said something snotty, like _Bucky thinks he’s bigger than me, he beat me up_ , and Steve said, _did you mess with that horse, Harley Keener?_ And I was just a kid, so I said, _maybe_ , and Steve said, _well, Buck, sounds like he’s not sure what he did wrong yet. You want me to take a shot at getting it through to him?_ ” Harley snorts, and wanders over to the cabinets, pulling out two pairs of thin sweatpants and tossing one to Peter. “So, I dunno, I didn’t call the cops, I guess,” he finishes, sliding the sweatpants up with a hiss as he settles the waistband around his hips. “And I still haven’t.”

Peter’s mouth is dry as he pulls up his pants. He asks quietly, “Does it hurt?”

“It stings,” says Harley honestly, shrugging, opening the other drawer and tossing Peter a shirt. “And it’ll- I dunno, for that roof thing, with Drake, I got more than one, just, like, as a reminder that they were _seriously pissed_ , I bet _someone_ decides I need another one later this week. But, like, I mean, Peter, I don’t- God, can’t believe I’m saying this, don’t you tell _anyone_ \- I don’t mind it? Somehow? Like, I coulda died, Johnny got hurt, ‘s only fair, and you know, I don’t even think about climbing up on roofs anymore.” He shrugs into his shirt and says, as his head pops out, giving Peter a grin, “Maybe the best way to my brain really is through my ass, I dunno.”

Peter nods seriously and says, “I-”

“You done yet, boys?” asks Bucky, knocking on the door and making Peter’s heart jump.

“Yeah,” calls Harley. “Heading to the jacks, we’ll be out in five, promise.”

“Don’t dilly your dally,” Bucky orders.

Harley blows out a breath and rolls his eyes, hanging up his towel on the hook under the fancy black metal H, and says, “C’mon, before they start getting _antsy_.”

After Peter’s washed and dried his hands, he opens the door to see that Bucky’s standing with his arms folded in the hallway, still wearing the black jeans and t-shirt from the day. Peter looks at Bucky’s hands, tapping on his biceps, and swallows, thinking of the bruised part of Harley’s thigh. He looks up at Bucky, who grunts, “Ain’t any different now than I was a week ago, Peter.”

“No, no, I know that,” whispers Peter. Still the same porn cowboy.

“C’mere,” sighs Bucky, pulling Peter into a hug, which _doesn’t help_. “It won’t change much, you’ll see. ‘Specially if you decide to really try to stay off Clint’s tattle list.”

Peter hears the door behind him open and Harley pads up, pats his back, and says, “Okay, bedtime?”

“Bedtime,” agrees Bucky, releasing Peter with a little push towards the front room.

Harley climbs the stairs a little slower than his usual race up them, but he’s had a long day, concedes Peter. Peter almost trips at one point, because the pants pool around his ankles, and he has to grab for the waistband and pull the pants back up, quickly.

“Steady,” says Bucky.

“Just tired,” Peter mutters.

“Yeah, you’re both wore out,” agrees Bucky. “Climb up,” he directs them.

“You come, too,” Harley mutters, hitching up his pants for the climb up the ladder. Peter bends to roll his pants legs up, watching how Harley almost slips off the ladder, the long legs of the pants getting in his way.

“Smart,” grunts Bucky, and then Peter’s climbing, feeling his eyelids already getting heavy, the calm of the loft settling in under his skin. He yawns, and doesn’t stand up, just crawls over to the bed, like Harley does. 

“You changing?” asks Bucky, pulling himself up the ladder.

“Nah,” says Harley, muffled by the pillow he presses his face into. “Nothing- nothing’s gonna feel good, anyway.”

“Bet not,” chuckles Bucky. “You gonna be able to settle, though?”

“Rub my back?” asks Harley.

“Sure, Half-pint,” says Bucky easily, standing up to flick off the light and then walking over to sit cross-legged by Harley’s side of the mattress. 

“Go to sleep,” he tells them, both of them, thinks Peter muzzily. 

“K,” mumbles Harley.

“Night, Bucky,” Peter says quietly.

“Night, Peter,” says Bucky, his voice as firm as it is quiet.

Peter listens to the sound of Bucky rubbing Harley’s back, the quiet shh-shh- of fabric against skin, the very muffled sounds of Tony and Steve and Clint and Sam talking outside, the animals of the ranch in the distance, and drifts off, his eyes fluttering shut, his breathing slow and steady.

The pillow under his cheek still smells like home, and the quilt is a familiar weight against his shoulders.

He knows Bucky’s sitting there, watching both of them, and that feels _so good_ , that he just drifts, and lets sleep take him down, softly and gently, and without kicking up any fuss.

~~~

When he wakes up, he realizes Harley’s still in bed. Actually. In, uh, _Peter’s_ bed. And that’s, uh, a little bit of a _problem_.

He must have been crying again, because there’s crusty dried tear tracks beside his right eye, and Harley’s wrapped all around him, still.

And really, that’s, that’s most of the problem.

He starts to shift away, but Harley’s eyes flutter open and Peter freezes.

Harley wheels back, eyes suddenly wide and frantic, and whispers, “Oh, oh, sorry, I- sorry, Peter, it just- I just-”

 _Oh_ , thinks Peter suddenly, licking his lips. _Oh._

He tilts his head and considers the bright flush on Harley’s cheek, the ache in his own dick. “H-hey,” he offers cautiously. “Good morning. Glad you, uh, didn’t sneak off.”

“I don’t _sneak_ ,” sniffs Harley, but his eyes are still too wide.

“Well, you’re never here, when I wake up,” whispers Peter.

“Well, I-” says Harley, and then he stops and looks over at Peter, his face a familiar mixture of guilty and ashamed. _Oh._

 _Yes_.

“Harley,” says Peter slowly. “Do you, uh, like guys?”

“What?” hisses Harley. “I mean, yeah, I guess.” He sounds a little breathless, Peter notes.

“Me too,” says Peter, feeling his heart start to hammer. “Have you ever been kissed by one?” he asks, curious.

“What? Who? No,” admits Harley, his eyes locked on Peter, now, looking just a little bit frightened. A little bit frightened, except he’s leaning _forward_ , Peter notes.

“I have,” says Peter, and then, because clearly Harley’s a little freaked out, he shifts closer and brings a hand up, to touch Harley’s cheek. “You want to?” he asks.

“ _You_ want to?” asks Harley, his cheeks flaming up red.

“Yes,” Peter tells him, and then he nods. “Yeah, yes. We could- if you want, I can-”

“Please?” squeaks Harley, and that’s about the cutest thing Peter’s ever heard. He shoots forward eagerly, and pulls Harley in with his hands, pulls Harley over to Peter’s lips for a kiss. 

It starts soft and gentle, sweet, in the pale morning light, but, well. Peter’s been to enough parties that he knows how to _deepen_ it, licking into Harley’s mouth and coaxing Harley to get into it, too. 

They break, after a while, both of them panting.

“Please tell me there’s more,” gasps Harley.

“Yes, if you- if you want it,” says Peter, even though he’s never, never done more himself. “I know- you want me to jerk you off?”

Harley groans lowly, and then surges forward to kiss Peter again. “Fuck, yes,” he growls into Peter’s mouth. “And then I want to get my hands on you, too,” he says, pulling back and looking into Peter’s eyes.

Peter smiles. “Oh, good,” he says, hand fumbling with Harley’s sweatpants, pushing them down roughly. Harley hisses and lifts his hips, and Peter feels his hard-on slap against Peter’s thigh. “You first,” he tells Harley, before kissing the other man and pressing him back into the mattress. “Tell me what you like, if- if I’m not-”

“God, just _touch_ me,” hisses Harley, his eyes scrunched shut. “Anywhere, I don’t care, I just- s’gonna feel so good, I already know it.”

Peter grins. Yeah, he feels the same way. He strokes up and down Harley’s length, marveling at the difference in their skin, the coloration, the way Harley’s sparse hair has just a tinge of red to it. He flicks the tip and Harley groans as soundlessly as he can. 

Peter wonders if the other two are awake, if Steve’s in his studio with the door open, and it gives him a thrill. He pulls on Harley and he’s not surprised when it doesn’t take much before Harley’s choking and arching up off the mattress with his heels and shoulders dug in, gasping, “Shitshitshitshit _shit_ ,” before releasing a white mess on his stomach. 

“Shit,” gasps Harley weakly. “Okay, so that feels _so much better_ \- you have no idea, Peter- than when I do it myself. I’ll- I’ll get you, just, uh, let me catch my breath.”

Peter grins. “Take your time.”

“Hey, you- I mean, you ever taste?” asks Harley.

Peter considers it. “I mean, I’ve never given a guy head, either,” he admits, finally. He runs one finger through the mess on Harley’s stomach and says, “But it can’t be too bad, guys in porn videos guzzle it, you should see ‘em.”

“Porn?” huffs Harley. “I- we don’t- Bobby said we don’t have wifi and laptops and stuff, so we don’t- I don’t-”

“Porn,” agrees Peter, sucking the salty, coppery tang off his finger with a frown. “It’s okay. Porn, I mean. And, uh, you. You taste okay.”

Harley sighs like it’s a relief. “Whew. How much, do- have you seen a lot of it?”

“Enough,” declares Peter. “I did, there’s this website, it’s all free, so you can just click through it, and we were trying to figure out if I’m gay or bisexual or _pan_ sexual, which is, like, where you’ll do anybody, and we’re pretty sure I’m pan.”

“We?” asks Harley, frowning.

“Yeah, my best friend, Ned, and I. He’s ace,” Peter says, and then explains to Harley’s obvious confusion, “He doesn’t like sex at all. Doesn’t even want to jerk off.”

“What?” yelps Harley. “I mean, Peter, every damn day, and then, you know, everyone around this place is just so- I’m red-blooded, Peter. I have _needs_.”

Peter laughs at this declaration and teases, “I took care of your _needs_ for the morning, Harley, I’m the one sitting here with a stiffy.”

“Oh,” chuckles Harley. “Well, now that I’m awake, let me-” He sits up, hands reaching out, and then frowns. He takes off his t-shirt and wipes up the mess on his stomach, tossing the t-shirt at the hamper without any chance of making it inside the hamper

“Yes,” sighs Peter, falling back, shifting his hips upward to let Harley push his sweatpants down, his shirt up. “Please, Harley,” he begs, just a little, thrilling to the feel of it.

“Oh, Peter, babe, am I gonna learn how to take care of your needs,” says Harley, which makes Peter groan, “You sure you haven’t seen porn, Harley?”

Harley shakes his head, chuckling, and then his hand skims down Peter’s stomach and wraps around Peter’s shaft. “Don’t need porn to know how to help you feel good, darlin’,” says Harley, his accent getting thicker and thicker with every word.

“Fuck,” moans Peter.

“Yeah, I bet I can figure that out, too,” chuckles Harley. “Can’t be that hard, been working on a farm for years, now.”

“We need lube, or- or lotion,” gasps Peter, although he doesn’t need anything, right now, anything but Harley’s hand, rubbing up and down, _touching_ him.

“I’ll figure it out,” says Harley confidently. He looks down Peter’s body to his hand and then says, “hold still, gonna- want to taste you, too, and you’ve got a drop.”

Peter groans as Harley’s lips seal to his tip, kissing gently, his tongue licking at Peter’s slit. He groans as quietly as he can, but he groans again when Harley pulls back. “How-how was it?” he gasps. 

“Yeah, I don’t want to guzzle it, but it’s not bad,” declares Harley, looking down at Peter over his shoulder, now. “You taste okay, too.”

“Well, lucky us,” gasps Peter, and then he doesn’t say anything more, while Harley’s hand strokes him until he convulses in a wet, sticky mess.

“You got a lot more than me,” says Harley, sounding faintly impressed.

“Enhanced,” Peter reminds him.

“Fuck, you think- Steve and Bucky’re enhanced, too,” whispers Harley.

“Fuck them, kiss me,” demands Peter.

“Okay,” says Harley, lifting his hand up to stroke Peter’s cheek. It’s a little wet and sticky, but Peter doesn’t mind much, because he’s got to pay attention to Harley’s tongue, and the way it already feels so confident, licking into Peter’s mouth.

~~~

They mess around for a little bit longer, breaking apart when they hear Bucky’s shout outside the open window of, “Good _bye_ , Stark!” and Tony’s return laughter.

“We should get dressed,” gasps Peter.

“Yeah,” sighs Harley regretfully, running fast fingers down Peter’s chest, tweaking the nipples that they’ve both discovered _like_ that. Harley’s prefer gentle, wet kisses, they both now know. “Don’t want them, God, can you imagine? And they’ll be up here, next,” he sighs.

“This was-” starts Peter, sitting up.

“This was good,” interrupts Harley. “I liked it. I want more.”

“Good,” breathes Peter. “Me too.”

“Well, you know where I sleep,” chuckles Harley, stretching. Peter clambers to his feet and pads to the dresser, picking out a pair of jeans and digging in the t-shirts. 

“Wear the blue one,” Harley says abruptly, yanking open his own dresser drawer. “Does stuff to your eyes.”

Peter watches him for a second and then says, “Yeah, okay, Harley,” and pulls on a light blue t-shirt. He makes his bed, then, and tries to think of anything but what- what they’d done, this morning, because they have to go downstairs and eat cinnamon rolls, now.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” whispers Harley against his neck, giving him one last kiss before they climb down the ladder.

“No, thank-thank you, Harley,” argues Peter, twisting in Harley’s arms until they’re face to face. “I’ve never- and that was- I really liked it.”

“Me, too,” grunts Harley. He quirks a grin at Peter. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Peter whispers. “No- no reason not to.”

“No reason not to,” agrees Harley, giving him another gentle kiss on the lips before turning and climbing down the stairs.

Peter looks around the loft, noting that _Harley_ doesn’t seem to mind leaving his bed looking like it’s been well-fucked, and whispers, again, “No reason not to,” to the mattresses, side by side on the floor.

Well.

Life just got a lot more interesting, that’s for sure.

~~~

“Hey, Peter, you sleep okay?” asks Steve, wrapping an arm around Peter and pulling him in for a hug as he sits on the stool at the end of the counter, sipping coffee.

“I did,” breathes Peter, rubbing contentedly against Steve’s side. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Forget Bucky, where’re the cinnamon rolls?” corrects Harley eagerly.

“Oven,” says Steve. “And you might not want him forgotten, forgotten men do not bake you sweets, Half-pint.”

“Eh, he can die in a ditch, my butt is still blazing,” grumbles Harley, bending over to open the oven door and reaching inside, yelping, “The pan is still hot!”

Steve shifts to stand next to Peter, and he feels his heart race, because Steve’s jaw is clenched. _Oh, no_.

Harley seems to sense something a second too late, one hand stuck in the pot-holder drawer, the other propping him up on the stovetop.

Steve’s fingers grab onto Harley’s ear and he hisses, “Try again.”

“Ow, ow, ow, Stevie, sorry, no, I didn’t- I just-” whimpers Harley. “I was just teasing, I promise,” he says, the hand in the drawer coming up to clamp on to Steve’s wrist.

“Go sit, stairs,” Steve says firmly, pulling Harley back from the oven. He releases Harley’s ear and repeats, “Go,” when Harley hesitates a second.

“I’m sorry,” calls Harley, but he moves quickly, jogging over to the stairs.

“Sit,” growls Steve, pulling down a plate and taking a roll out of the pan with a set of tongs. It’s like a _deli_ cinnamon roll, Peter thinks, delighted, huge and fluffy and-

“Come eat,” Steve tells Peter, still scowling. He puts the plate in front of the seat next to him.

There’s a muffled noise and Steve says, “You scuff those walls, you’ll clean ‘em and then we’ll have a chat about what _sit_ means, Half-pint.”

Harley sighs.

“Usually lasts longer than twelve hours,” sighs Steve into his coffee mug, before looking over at Peter curiously. “You gonna test me today, too?”

“No?” asks Peter, his heart fluttering. “I- I was going to, uh, it’s my day to do the morning shed chores? And then, I write, with you, and then- then-”

“No need to panic,” chuckles Steve, shaking his head. “We gonna have a bad attitude, today, Harley?” he asks, a little louder. “I just need to know, so I can mark it on my calendar.”

“No, sir,” mutters Harley, almost inaudible.

“High spirits are fine, Half-pint, but wishing people dead in ditches when they got up early to make you cinnamon rolls, well-” Steve blows across his coffee. “Words you’ll learn to regret, one way or another.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Harley tells him, sounding penitent. “I- please, Steve.”

“What’s he saying _please_ for, and taking up room on my stairs?” asks Bucky gruffly, coming down the stairs.

“Sassin’,” says Steve.

“Oh, for _Pete’s_ sake,” hisses Bucky. “Seriously?”

Peter takes another bite of cinnamon roll, glad to be excluded, for once. It’s heavenly, the cinnamon roll, warm and gooey and squishy and soft and _fresh_.

“I won’t say it again, I was just- I was just joking, and I know it’s not funny, now,” tries Harley.

Steve and Bucky both grunt. “Usually get more than just a single night,” sighs Bucky. “What the heck gave him so much giddy-up in his go?”

Peter chokes on his next bite, and Steve pushes his coffee mug toward him. Peter swallows a sip, gratefully, and gasps, “Thanks.” He’s got a pretty good idea of what put Harley in such a swaggering, high-energy mood. But he’s not confessing it, _ever_.

“Well, here’s where we’re at,” sighs Steve.

“I’ll give him a tune-up after breakfast,” Bucky growls. “And then we’ll go work Tantrum.”

Steve nods and calls, “You hear the plan, Harley?”

“My butt,” moans Harley. Peter is very careful with his next bite, trying to hold back the laughter at the drama.

“Well, it sure seems to be the best way to your brain,” snorts Bucky, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and grabbing two plates down from the cupboard. He fills both of them with cinnamon rolls and brings them to the counter, putting one next to Peter.

Steve says, “If you’re ready to be civil, come sit.”

“I’m _ready_ ,” sighs Harley, scrambling to sit next to Peter. He hisses as his butt connects with the hard stool, but dives into the cinnamon roll with his bare hands, praising, “‘s so good, Bucky, ‘fank oo.”

“Tony get off okay?” asks Steve calmly.

“Yup,” says Bucky. “Just fine. Not even gonna be late to his meeting, and he had two rolls.”

“He looked thin,” sighs Steve.

“Well, we’ll fix that. Looked tired, too.”

“Being home’ll fix that,” Steve says.

“I don’t see why he can’t just stay here,” mutters Harley, reaching for Bucky’s coffee cup and smiling when Bucky release it to him for a long sip.

“There’s- a lot,” Steve says slowly, looking over at Bucky.

“A lot,” agrees Bucky. “Too much for today. He has to go, because he’s the boss, and that’s just how it works, sometimes.”

“I saw the SI tower once,” says Peter brightly. “I took a tour, with my robotics class.”

“You did?” asks Steve. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

“I’ve been, nothing special,” says Bucky. “View at the top was just more city than I cared to look at.”

“You’ve been to the penthouse?” asks Peter, impressed.

“Well, Stark was fixing the arm, him and Forge and Shuri,” says Bucky, taking a bite of roll and waving the roll at his prosthetic for emphasis. “Had the whole damn world poking and prodding at me, trying to figure out how to integrate it to my _organic neural net_.”

“You _lived_ at SI Tower?” gasps Peter. 

“‘S just a tall building,” says Harley resentfully. “We got a _mountain_ , here at the Ranch, you want something _impressive_.”

“He always comes back,” Steve says, lifting an arm and rubbing it through Harley’s hair, his elbow knocking the back of Peter’s head a little. “I think you can see where he’d rather be, huh?”

“Here,” says Harley firmly. “With me.”

“Yup,” says Bucky, taking another sip of coffee and giving Steve a wide-eyed look over the rim of it, eyebrows flying. “I’m sure you’re exactly the draw that brings him back, every time. Loves finding out which new, innovative way you’ve decided to kill yourself.”

“If Tony’s back,” says Harley, like something is just occurring to him, “then I can go back to the workshop.”

“Got a full schedule today,” Bucky informs him hotly.

“Well, sure, not _today_. Today my butt is getting sacrificed to the gods of bad humor,” says Harley with a snort. “But tomorrow, can I?”

“We’ll ask Stark if we see him, Harley. It usually takes a day or two for him to settle in,” says Bucky.

“Hot da--ang,” whispers Harley, biting his cinnamon roll again.

Steve’s coffee is pretty much Peter’s coffee, now, Peter decides, sipping it again. Steve hasn’t taken more than a sip since he’d given it to Peter for choking.

“Thanks for the food,” Peter says, draining the mug and setting it on his plate. “It was the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever had.” He balances the plate and mug as he walks to the sink and then says, “Gonna go do stalls and the shed!”

“Call if you need help,” Steve calls after him.

“I won’t, though!” says Peter confidently. Cleaning stalls takes time and effort, but not a lot of brains or strength.

He lets the horses out into the paddock and grabs the wheelbarrow, starting with Karen’s stall because she is the _best_ ever.

He’s almost done with the third stall when Harley slips in the door, red-eyed again, and croaks, “Need a hug.”

Peter bobbles the pitchfork and almost hits himself on the head. “Y-yeah, sure, yes, c’mere,” he says, dropping it against the wall and opening his arms.

Harley careens into them and sighs, “Why am I _like_ this? It wasn’t funny, and I’m always-”

“Shh,” says Peter. “You’re fine.”

Harley kisses his neck and sighs, again. “And now I _want_ you again, and that’s not gonna make anything about riding with Bucky any easier. God. I just need to get out, we need to not be _stuck_ here, I need _work_ , that’s what I need.”

Peter feels a trickle of guilt, because, well, the reason they’re not out, working, is because Peter got dumped on them. 

“X Mansion kid’s’re all finishing up for the year, soon, and then they’ll be everywhere and I swear to God, Peter, I get in so much trouble all summer because they’re all- it’s chaos, unless we’re out doing long drives, and then I’m so tired I can’t even think,” mumbles Harley. 

“I love it, and you’ll like it, too, when Thor says you’re ready,” he adds fiercely. 

“Sure,” says Peter, feeling guilty. “Sure you do. And it’s just a couple of days until the camp-out, and that’ll be good,” he offers.

Harley sniffs. “Kid’s stuff. But, yeah,” he adds reluctantly, pulling back, hands resting on Peter’s arms.

He looks into Peter’s eyes, and Peter lets him look. 

Harley’s eyes darken and he darts forward to kiss Peter’s neck, gently, a quick peck, and then a lewd lick, and then another peck. “Thanks,” he whispers. “I needed that.”

“Yeah, literally any time,” Peter assures him. “How’s- how’s your butt?”

“Painful and aching and a reminder to watch my tongue and stay the fuck away from Johnny,” mutters Harley. “And we’re gonna go riding and I’m going to mourn it the entire time, and then Bucky’s gonna make me take a nap, I know it.”

“Oh,” says Peter. He loves their daily ride down to the home farm, just the two of them, together, with Karen and Tantrum and the crisp sunshine. He shrugs. “Well, I mean, don’t do anything else dumb today, Harley, I don’t know what to-”

“He got the _paddle_ ,” complains Harley. “I hate that damn thing.” 

Peter’s mind boggles. “Like, like a canoe-?”

“Nah, it’s nasty. Here, I’ll show you, let’s get the last stall done,” says Harley. 

Peter’s heart lifts and he kisses Harley’s cheek quickly, a fast peck. “Yeah, help me out, and then show me this paddle,” he teases.

Harley smiles at him and then bends, groaning, to wheel the wheelbarrow closer to the third stall. He grabs a pitchfork and opens the gate on the fourth one, and then begins whistling. 

Peter smiles. It’s nice to have cheerful help.

~~~

“Stalls’re done, tidied up the shed, horses have fodder and water and I don’t have homework,” says Harley in a rush, kicking off his boots.

“Thought it was Peter’s morning?” asks Bucky, confused.

“It was, I helped,” says Harley. “Please don’t get mad about me helping, I’ll get all confused, Bucky, because helping’s _good_.”

“Yeah, no, of course you can help,” says Bucky. “Just… never noticed that you’d want to, before. You hate stalls.”

“Well, I like Peter, and he was almost done, just helped him with the last one,” sighs Harley.

“Huh,” says Bucky. “Well, give me a half-hour and we’ll go.”

“My buuutt,” whines Harley. “Do we hafta?”

“You want Tantrum, you earn him,” says Bucky bluntly.

“I want Tantrum,” agrees Harley, although he rubs his shirt above the waistline in the back, clearly considering whether he wants to _earn_ Tantrum today.

“Don’t pout, you deserve everything you get,” Bucky tells him, turning and heading to the work out room.

“Hey, can I show Peter the paddle?” calls Harley, dragging Peter towards the stairs by an arm. 

Bucky stops and turns around, eyebrows lifted. 

“What?” asks Harley, as Peter’s skin blazes and he wishes he could sink through the floor. “He’s never seen one. Asked me if it was a _canoe_ paddle!”

“Yeah, why don’t you go tell Steve I need him in my room, and then go water the strawberries, weed ‘em,” says Bucky slowly.

“Oh,” says Harley. “Uh, yes. Yes, sir.” He drops Peter’s arm and pounds up the stairs, shouting, “Steve?!”

Peter feels breathless as Bucky stalks towards him with that same rolling gait. “I- uh-” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” says Bucky with a grin. “You’ll be fine, we don’t bite. But, yeah, we should talk. Start walking. Remember which one’s mine?”

“On the right?” asks Peter, climbing the stairs just a bit too quickly.

“Yup,” confirms Bucky.

Peter scrambles down the hallway, too, his heart beating way too fast. He’s just going to see a paddle, he thinks. That’s all. Bucky’s going to show him the paddle so he knows what Harley’s talking about, and then, then, then he’s going to go upstairs with Steve and journal everything about this morning, in secret code, because _holy fuck_ , there’s a lot to update.

He comes to a complete stop in front of the door, and Bucky’s footsteps sound heavy and fill the hallway as he gets nearer. Peter can’t- it doesn’t feel right to open the door, and he can’t look over at Bucky, and so he just shifts his weight by the door, feeling jumpy.

 _For no good reason_ , he reminds himself.

There’s no reason to feel jumpy. It’s just-

“Go on, open it,” orders Bucky, leaning against the doorsill.

Peter jumps and his fingers slip on the door handle before he snatches it open and steps inside. Bucky chuckles, and flicks on the lightswitch. 

The room is navys and grays, the bed dark and sleek and already made, making Peter think of the tangled sheets Harley had left upstairs a little guiltily. Harley may not mind, but it’s clear that in this house, beds get made. 

“Go siddown,” Bucky tells him.

There’s nowhere to sit, though. Peter peers around the room. Maybe there’s a chair?

“On the bed,” Bucky says, amused. Peter scrambles to sit on the very edge of it, tucking his hands between his knees in nervousness.

“Hey,” says Steve, a little breathless. “Harley says he’s going to go water the strawberries and weed them, take care of the fire pit? Whatcha nee- oh. Hi, Peter.” He sounds dumbfounded, but not unhappy to see Peter there, so there’s that.

“Peter,” says Bucky slowly, closing the door as Steve steps further into the room, “wanted to know what a paddle looks like.”

“Did he,” breathes Steve. His lips quirk in a smile, “Well, he came to the right room.”

“Harley was gonna show him, but I figured, we had to chat anyway,” says Bucky.

“We should,” agrees Steve, nodding and striding forward until he can put his hands on Peter’s shoulders and shake Peter a little. “Hey, sweetheart, you look ready to faint, you okay?”

“I’m- uh, yeah?” asks Peter, wincing at how _lame_ he is.

“Well, want a hug?” offers Steve with a teasing grin.

“Yes,” sighs Peter gratefully.

Steve barks a laugh and sits, pulling Peter onto his lap and wrapping his arms around Peter’s chest, pulling him tight. “You paddled Harley for being sassy?” he asks Bucky curiously.

“I paddled Harley because Harley said, _ouch, damn, fuck, Bucky, it was all Johnny’s fault, go spank him_ , this morning,” chuckles Bucky, shaking his head.

“Oh, well,” sighs Steve. “Fair call. What is _up_ with him today?”

Peter tries very hard to conceal his guilty wince in a wiggle.

“No idea, but he’s back to normal, now,” sighs Bucky.

“So, Peter,” says Steve slowly. “Let’s talk about paddles and other things.”

“No, let’s- let’s forget about it,” whispers Peter on whim.

“Oh, yeah?” asks Steve, snuggling him closer. “You want to?” he murmurs, his chin in the crook of Peter’s shoulder. “We can.”

Peter’s stomach trembles and he looks up at Bucky, who just- just looks down at him, the damn porno cowboy. It’s _unfair_. People’ll do a lot of stuff for a guy who looks like that.

The flame in Peter’s chest bursts back to life as he thinks about- about Harley sassing Steve and snarking at Bucky, about the red marks on Harley’s butt and Harley saying, offhand, _maybe the best way to my brain really is through my ass, I dunno._

He wiggles a little in Steve’s grip, and then spits, “No. No, I _don’t_ want to forget about it. I want- I want to forget _Bucky_. In a ditch!”

“Careful, Peter, we were just here for a talk,” warns Steve. “But the timer started last night, you set it.”

“ _You_ set it,” mutters Peter resentfully.

“We did,” agrees Bucky, coming closer. He crouches down, so that he’s looking up at Peter. “You want it to go off, have a taste? Sure sounds like you might.”

“I- I-” says Peter, squirming on Steve’s lap. “I don’t-”

“You don’t know what you want,” teases Steve. “Stay put. We’ll get you sorted out, but we’re going to _talk_ first. So settle down.”

Peter shrinks back, against Steve’s chest, as Bucky tilts his head. “Yeah, you think you’re tough, don’tcha,” he says, shaking his head and leaning back. “Well, I can’t argue it. Being awfully brave. _I’m_ impressed.”

“Me too,” agrees Steve, his tone so fond Peter gasps once before clenching his jaw tighter.

“Okay, so, let’s talk,” says Bucky. “We’ll set the rules, Peter, and if you wanna talk about the rules, that’s fine. We can talk about them, if you keep it civil. Harley’s talked us around on rules before, by being civil and explaining why it won’t work or asking for something different.”

“But until you talk us around, the rules stand,” says Steve firmly, his chin digging into Peter’s shoulder a little. Peter remembers, startling back again, Steve saying slowly, _I like having things my way, I like saying no and knowing I can make it stick._

“We’re not unfair or- or- unjust,” says Bucky, nodding once. “The rules are things like, _be safe_ and _do what we tell you to do_ and _don’t be a jerk_.”

Peter nods. “Like, like _language_ ,” he says.

“Well, that’s a losing battle, but Steve’s sure intent on fighting it,” chuckles Bucky, looking up at Steve with humor in his eyes.

“We don’t ask too much, and if you think we are, you can talk to us about it. There’s reasons for the rules, they’re things to keep you safe and healthy and keep us all sane, here. Rules like, _don’t start fights_ and _do your work_ , that kind of stuff,” says Steve.

“Is there, a- a- list or something?” asks Peter hopefully.

“What, so you can study it, pass it on to Harley, and watch him blow through every single one?” snorts Bucky. “Nah, tough guy, you just listen to us the first time. We don’t plan on being tough on you unless you ram yourself at a rule we know you know was there, okay? That sound fair?”

“Yes,” says Peter simply. 

“Good,” Bucky tells him. “And if you _do_ decide to ram yourself at a rule, let’s talk about what’s gonna happen, because I can see that little spark in you, Peter, licking at you and making you _want_ to go looking for trouble.”

Peter breathes shallowly, and Steve releases his arms from Peter’s chest to slide down Peter’s arms and turn Peter’s hands palm up in front of them. Peter stares, transfixed by how much bigger Steve’s hand is than his. “Hands,” Steve says simply. “A spanking. One of us will smack you until your butt is red and you’re feeling like you want to say sorry and never break the rule again.”

“That’s the most common,” agrees Bucky. “Harley usually pushes until he gets one from one of us once every week or so. Sometimes longer, if he’s feeling settled and sometimes, well. Tony coming home is always a rough time for Harley.”

“Belts,” says Steve, nodding, pointing a finger at Bucky’s. “They’re handy.”

Bucky’s fingers tap the black leather of his belt and he nods. “And they hurt _faster_ , and their sting lasts longer, and they don’t wear out the hand.”

“Plus, where we come from, pretty traditional,” sighs Steve. Bucky nods, conceding this point.

 _Brooklyn_ , thinks Peter again, confused. Who knew _Brooklyn_ was still, still stuck in the stone ages or whatever? Was a 50 Shades of Grey paradise? 

“Paddle,” says Steve, nodding, and Bucky stands, opening the closet door, and there is a- well. It’s a _paddle_ , thinks Peter, heart hammering. It’s got a handle and it’s made of wood and it’s thick, and it’s long and it’s, well, it’s a paddle. He’s never seen one before in his life, but it radiates menace and pain and it’s clearly, clearly, a _paddle_.

Bucky holds it out to him, but Peter shakes his head, shrinking back against Steve. Bucky quirks a grin and slaps the palm of his hand with it, gently. “Good instincts. You’re not supposed to _want_ the paddle, Peter.”

“Does it hurt?” asks Peter. He winces because what a dumb question.

Steve snorts. “Like _crazy_. Avoid the paddle, Peter.”

“I’ve seen Steve use these, so I’m pretty confident in what I’m about to say, Peter,” says Bucky easily, still tapping the paddle against his palm. “We don’t usually count spanks, we just wail away until you’re in the right frame of mind. Sometimes that’s fast, sometimes it takes time. The belt and the paddle, well. I’ve always counted the paddle strokes, always let Harley know exactly how many he’s expected to take. And only once, I didn’t tell him how many beltings I was gonna give him, and given that he’d just flown off a roof to get Tony’s attention, well. I don’t regret tanning him.”

“Clint said- switches,” says Peter, squirming.

“Sure,” says Steve slowly. “Harley can show you how to cut one, and when we’re outside, on campouts, that’s probably the route we’ll take. They’re quiet, Peter, don’t echo around.”

“Wh- what about H- Harley and m-me?” says Peter.

“Well, Harley’s not usually too concerned about being quiet,” agrees Bucky with a twinkle in his eye. “If you want to be shy, you’re welcome to be as quiet as you can be,” he says doubtfully.

Peter sets his jaw. He’s going to be _so quiet_. That’d show Bucky.

“Steve’s grabbed a wooden spoon a couple of times,” says Bucky carefully. “So that could happen, too. But usually it’s just our hands, Peter.”

Peter gets the feeling Bucky’s laughing at him, somehow, although there’s no indication of it on his face. He lifts his chin and says, “Okay.”

“Okay,” agrees Steve, playing with Peter’s hands a little. “You okay? Still in?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Still in,” he confirms.

Bucky stays crouched, his eyes serious and his head tilted, and Steve is silent underneath him, until Peter squirms and says, “What? What?!”

“Just waiting, that’s all,” says Bucky. “No point leaving the room just to have you hiss and spit until I have to drag you back in.”

“We can see it,” says Steve. “That little- whatever it is, Harley gets it too, the little voice inside that says, _do something, rile them up, test them_.”

Peter flushes and shakes his head. “N-no,” he mutters.

“Peter,” chuckles Bucky, “it’s okay. We don’t mind it.”

“You- you should, I’m- I’m a little _shit_ sometimes,” says Peter in a burst.

“I doubt that,” says Bucky, while Steve corrects, “Language.”

“Losing battle,” teases Bucky, before saying, in that same playful tone, “I doubt you’re anything but a good kid who wants a spanking from time to time, to remind him that he spends most of his time being so _good_.”

“I don’t- I don’t _want-_ ” says Peter, because that’s _crazy._ He can’t finish the sentence, though, because, well.

Here he is.

He _asked_.

The fire inside licks at him, while they wait for- for _what?_

“Lemme go,” he says, stupidly, because Steve’s not even _holding_ him.

“No, you can stay right here,” says Steve sternly. “Until we’re ready.”

“Be ready,” Peter snaps.

“Uh-uh, not how it works,” says Bucky. “You don’t make the rules, do you, Peter? We set the timer.”

“Well, I can set it off,” warns Peter.

Steve jiggles his knee and says, “But are you sure you _want to?_ You don’t have to, Peter. We don’t need you to. Something’ll come up at some point. Always does. And we can go through those first steps, then. It doesn’t have to be now.”

“Well, you can shut up,” says Peter pleasantly.

“Think that’s pretty clear, Steve,” chuckles Bucky, wiping his face and looking up at Steve with humor in his stupid eyes, one hand covering his mouth. “Better take care of it before it gets any worse.”

“And you can go find a ditch,” Peter tells him earnestly, watching Bucky’s eyes lose their sparkle with satisfaction. _Yeah, not so funny now, is it, pornoguy._

“Enough,” says Steve, loudly, in Peter’s ear, and his heart hammers. “Okay, tough guy, message received, you want _now_ , you can have _now.”_ He shoves Peter off of his lap, not unkindly, but very firmly, and turns Peter until he’s facing Steve. Steve’s hands fly to Peter’s pants button and Peter squirms, letting the angry little flame take over his arms and bat at Steve’s hands. 

“No,” he yelps. “I don’t- you’re _stupid_ ,” he hisses. “You’re _stupid,_ and I don’t- I don’t-”

“We have rules, Peter,” says Steve sternly. “We don’t start fights.”

“We end ‘em,” says Bucky enthusiastically, behind Peter.

“And you’re trying to start a fight, calling names and saying people should shut up and find ditches, and don’t think I forgot exactly why Harley found himself on the stairs, this morning, Peter Parker,” says Steve sternly.

Peter flushes with, with anger and tension, his hands fisting at his side. 

“You’re already too worked up to talk to, huh?” asks Steve.

Peter glares up at him.

“Okay, that’s fine,” says Steve. “You don’t want me to unbutton your pants, you can do it, then.”

Peter shifts his weight.

“Now,” barks Steve, and Peter’s hands fly to his waistband without any additional thought in his head. He unbuttons the button and then hesitates.

“Fly, too,” says Steve.

Peter unzips and glares at Steve’s stupid belt buckle. It’s a stupid picture of a stupid hill, and a- _oh._

It’s _this_ hill, and there’s the _house_.

“Last chance,” Steve warns. “Sure you don’t want to just say _sorry, that was rude?”_

Peter raises his chin and snarls, “Troubled kids don’t say sorry.”

“Then it’s a good thing for your butt, that you’re not troubled,” says Steve, and then he lifts and shoves Peter, stripping down the pants, and bends Peter over his knee. His hand lashes out, and Peter gasps, because Harley said _sting_ , but it’s not like a beesting _at all_ , it’s like a hundred angry hornets in a dump truck, slamming into his butt, every time Steve’s hand connects. 

Peter had every intention of being quiet, he really did.

But the thing is, when Peter’s done being mad and crazy with that lick of flame, when he’s ready to be done and well past ready to be sorry, Steve _doesn’t stop_ , and Peter tries to say he’s ready to stop, but when he opens his mouth, the only thing that comes out is a little yelp. It’s embarrassing, and once he lets out the first one, he can’t hold them in, little yelps and whimpers and hisses punctuated by the slap of Steve’s hand on his ass. 

No. 

_Language_.

His butt.

And Steve doesn’t seem to care about whatever Peter’s trying to tell him, really, slapping down with his hand and leaving a loud, _smack_ , to his own rhythm.

“Ple-” Peter begins, only to have another smack interrupt him before he can finish the word. “Ss,” he hisses, squirming.

“Peter, your sit spot,” says Steve, at one point, and then the focus of Peter’s whole world becomes jumping away, as far away as he can get, from Steve’s hand, although it turns out, the answer is _not very far at all_ , because Steve just twists and wraps himself around Peter’s ass- _butt-_ and keeps going.

“Had enough?” asks Steve, his hand slowing down. “Ready to be good for us?”

“Yess,” pleads Peter, his head spinning. “Yess, please.” He remembers Harley’s voice and his own cracks as he gulps, “I’m _sorry_ , I am, _I’m sorry_.”

“Well, he sounds sincere, but maybe he needs a crack with the paddle,” says Bucky, and Peter dives his face for Steve’s hip, burying his face there and begging, “No, no, please, please, no!”

A hand comes up to rub his back, gentle and soothing, and Peter melts a little into the touch. “He’s too good to need a paddle, Bucky,” says Steve softly. “Look how brave he was, today.”

“He _was_ pretty brave, huh, sweetheart?” asks Bucky, his voice fond. “Coulda just asked for a sample, but I guess, least he didn’t go jumping off the woodshed roof or something equally stupid.”

“Riding Sabertooth,” chuckles Steve.

“Tell you to fuck off, you’re not his daddy,” laughs Bucky. “Man, I’ve never seen you turn so many colors.”

“Shh,” says Steve, when Peter scrubs his face against Steve’s hip. “You just calm down, I’ll let you up in a minute and we can talk.”

“He’s a good one. We’re pretty lucky,” says Bucky.

Peter’s ass is on full view, he realizes. And, and so is- well, Bucky’s still crouched, or, or sitting, and he can _feel_ where the t-shirt rucked up on Steve’s knee, in the front, and his pants are, are tangled at his ankles and- Peter whimpers, trying to snake his hands back to twitch the shirt down, at least. 

Steve grabs his hands and pins them at the small of his back. “C’mon, now, you didn’t throw them back once, not _once_ , during the spanking. Stop messing with them, now.”

“Hey, he didn’t, did he?” asks Bucky. “Musta wanted it, then.”

“D-didn’t,” asserts Peter. Steve shifts, and all that Peter can think is that he’s _done_ pushing now, please, so he wails, “ _Sorry_ , but I’m _sorry_.”

“You’re all done, sweetheart,” Steve tells him. “ _We’re_ all done, here.”

“M’ _pants_ ,” sobs Peter. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna hate them,” chuckles Bucky, but he slides forward and digs Peter’s underwear out, sliding them up Peter’s hips.

Peter hisses at the scrape of the cotton against his raw skin, and tries not to be embarrassed and especially not to be turned on, by Bucky’s hands _doing that_.

“Toldja,” says Bucky. “Now imagine jeans on top of that.” He pats Peter’s butt and Peter hisses and then hiccups, “I’m _sorry_ ,” in case that’ll help.

Bucky and Steve chuckle, together, and that’s great for them, he’s sure. 

“All right, out of the jeans,” says Steve. “Up on the bed, let’s go.”

Peter crawls forward, because he definitely _does not want_ the jeans right now, over Steve and onto the bed. Steve chuckles and shifts, and Peter can only assume he’s folding Peter’s pants because he’s not looking back to find out.

Bucky says, “You want me to run the talk?”

“Seems fair, I did the heavy hitting,” laughs Steve.

“My arm’s still tired from earlier,” Bucky chuckles, “so thanks for that.”

There’s a dip in the bed mattress, and Peter scrambles to bury his face in the pillows.

“No, no hiding allowed,” says Bucky, pulling him back down. Peter tries to use a little spider power to cling, but Bucky just rips him back. “Enhanced,” Bucky reminds him in a mocking tone.

“No shit,” gasps Peter.

“Language,” chides Steve, and a hand smacks Peter’s aching butt.

“Ow!” yelps Peter, and then immediately covers his mouth. What is he, _four_?

“Enough sass,” says Steve firmly. “You’re done, anyway. Listen to Bucky.”

“All right, tough guy,” says Bucky, lifting Peter into his arms, making him hiss with the stinging pain of _something touching his butt_. “You said you were sorry. What were you sorry _for?”_

“For being a jerk,” says Peter. “I- you didn’t want- and I pushed, and- I don’t-”

“You don’t even know what you want, right now,” chuckles Steve, rubbing a hand on Peter’s leg. “You’re nowhere _near_ qualified to tell us what we want.”

“I pushed,” says Peter, miserable. “I said- stuff-”

“Yeah, you did,” says Bucky. “And you got what was coming to you, didn’t you?”

The words drop into Peter’s stomach like rocks. “Yes, yessir,” he mutters, flushing.

“And so we won’t hear it again, will we?” asks Bucky.

“N-no, sir,” says Peter quickly.

“You’re gonna be pleasant, and nice, and kind, again, won’t you?” asks Bucky, shifting a little. “Gonna follow directions, and remember who’s in charge around here, right?”

“Y-yes,” agrees Peter, his head swirling.

“Okay then,” says Bucky. “Say sorry one more time, and then not ever again, you hear me? Not for this, this’s done. You wanted to push, you pushed, and you got what was coming to you.”

“S-sorry,” whimpers Peter, his cheeks flaming.

“Doesn’t know what he wants,” chuckles Steve, rubbing Peter’s shoulder, now. “Get him stretched out, Buck, take a nap. Poor fella.”

“Reminds me of you, looking for fights, trying to show off how you _could, too_ , be heroic,” grunts Bucky.

“Yeah, well, we all know where that got me,” sighs Steve.

He leans in, and gives Bucky a kiss, and drops a kiss on Peter’s curls, too. “Have a nap,” he suggests. “I’ll do Harley’s ride today, see if we can go kidnap Stark and get him out, too.”

“Thanks,” says Bucky, shifting Peter while Steve does something with the covers. 

Bucky sets him down on the bed and Peter yelps, rolling over onto his stomach and glaring up at Steve, beside the bed, because he’s not _quite_ brave enough to glare at Bucky. Steve smiles down at him and pulls the covers over him, gently. “Don’t even know what you want, sweetheart,” he repeats, running his hands through Peter’s curling hair. “Listen to Bucky.”

“Yes,” croaks Peter. “Got it. Will- yes. Will do.”

“Bye,” calls Bucky, still on top of the covers. He stretches out as the door opens, though, beside Peter, and rubs Peter’s back through the shirt. It feels- really good. “Try to sleep,” he suggests. “I’ll go get you a glass of water, you thirsty? Harley’s always thirsty.”

“Yes,” says Peter in a very small voice, not feeling at all brave.

“Hold still,” orders Bucky, and Peter stiffens.

There’s the sound of a door sliding open and then a clatter, water being run and turned off, and then Bucky’s back, dipping the bed mattress with his weight, again. “Drink,” he says. 

Peter lifts his head and sniffles back some snot, and gulps the water down in a few fast glugs. 

“Thanks,” he says shakily.

“You’re welcome. I see your manners are all back, that’s good,” says Bucky. “Now close your eyes and rest. I won’t go anywhere.”

“Okay,” says Peter, and then, for some reason, he feels too far away, suddenly. He shifts closer, and then closer again, until he’s pressed up against Bucky’s side, again. 

“Don’t even know what you want,” chuckles Bucky, but his hand smoothes up and down the blankets on Peter’s back, and _that’s_ , apparently, exactly what Peter wanted.

He sighs, and tells himself, _you’re very weird_. 

But they don’t seem to mind, much.

They’re pretty weird, too, actually.

So that’s probably okay, then.

“Relax,” says Bucky again, his voice a low rumble.

 _Well. When the porno-cowboy has a paddle right there… probably best to do what he wants_ , thinks Peter blearily.

Bucky’s hand smooths over his back and he lets his mind just wander. He hopes there’s time to write in his journal tonight because he’s got _so much_ to add to it, in code.

~~~

“Hey, kiddo,” says Bucky rubbing at Peter’s shoulder. “C’mon, get up, Peter.”

“Mh?” asks Peter, shifting around, shifting closer to Bucky’s bulk, beside him.

“Up, hon,” coaxes Bucky. “Time to rise and shine. They expect you down at the stable in an hour, and you haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Oh,” sighs Peter, and then he stills, his heart beating faster. “Um,” he says hesitantly, because _he’s in the pornocowboy’s bed_ , and he’s pretty sure the guy got a good look at his dick, when he was getting _spanked_ by the pornocowboy’s boyfriend and he’s not sure where exactly his life took this turn, but he’s not telling Aunt May about any of this, next Sunday.

Nope.

Not a chance.

“You gotta put your jeans on, babe,” says Bucky, leaning over and grabbing them off the floor. He tosses them at Peter and Peter groans, sitting up. His butt feels, uh- sore, actually.

Peter frowns.

“What’s up?” says Bucky.

“Well, it’s, uh, been an hour,” Peter tells him, sliding from the bed to slip on the jeans, feeling stiff, actually stiff, which is a shock, too.

“Sure,” says Bucky. “Something like that, anyway.”

“I-” Peter remembers back to the cage matches. “I’m usually, I mean, I can take a lot of damage.”

“Oh, enhanced, sure,” says Bucky easily, before he seems to hesitate and says, “Steve’s enhanced, too, Peter. And he wasn’t exactly being easy on you. Think he wanted to make a good first impression.”

Peter freezes and looks over at Bucky. “Uh, what?”

“If he’d’a hit Harley that hard, for that long, Harley wouldn’t be moving from the bed,” reports Bucky. 

He has no reason to lie to Peter.

_Huh._

“Anyway, why’d you think I’ve been watching you? Saw it fade from a glowing red to a dull pink after the first few minutes, figured you’d be fine,” says Bucky, grinning.

The pornocowboy’s been staring at his butt while he slept. For an hour.

That’s… that’s really weird.

Peter’s dick decides to take an interest in it, though, playing re-runs of Harley’s hand on it, stroking up and down, and then replacing _Harley’s_ hand with something more… metallic.

God, no, _Peter’s_ the weird one here, that seals it, he decides. 

“Go dig up some leftovers for lunch,” Bucky chuckles, like he’s been reading Peter’s thoughts. “There’s some carne asada in the freezer if you’re starving for steak, or that trout Harley caught on Saturday, too, that needs eating before it goes bad.”

“Yeah, thanks,” mutters Peter.

“Hey, Peter,” says Bucky. Something in his voice pulls Peter’s head up and around, to look directly at Bucky for the second time since he’s woken up. “You did good, tough guy. You were very brave.”

Peter’s cheeks blaze as he nods and scrambles for the door. He takes the stairs two at a time as he scrambles toward the freedom of the kitchen, and then comes to an abrupt halt at the counter.

“I’m mooching,” announces the man in the fridge. “It’s my ranch, and my refrigerator, and my electricity, and so I am- oh, hello, Peter,” says Tony, turning around with a smile. 

_He knows_ , thinks Peter wildly. 

There’s no way he can tell. There’s no way anyone can tell. Even if they know that Peter and Steve had _talked_ about it. There’s no way he can tell. Right? 

“H-hi, Mr. Stark,” he stammers.

“Tony, please, God, my _grandpa_ was Mr. Stark,” sighs Tony, turning to dig around again.

“Oh, uh, then, Tony. Hi,” Peter says. _He has to know_. It must show, right? Somehow?

“I see tortillas and sour cream and that fancy Mexican cheese. I see tomatoes. I see diced onions. You know what I don’t see?” asks Tony.

“Carne asada is in the freezer,” offers Peter.

“Bingo,” says Tony happily, backing out of the fridge with an armful of food and dumping it on the counter. He opens the freezer and grabs out a casserole dish, sliding it into the microwave and pressing what seems to Peter to be a random assortment of buttons. “You gonna mooch off of me, then?” he asks, squinting at Peter.

“I knew where the carne asada was,” Peter reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d’ve found it, but sure, you saved me five minutes,” agrees Tony, with another flashing smile. 

So Peter gets to learn Tony’s Secret of Making The Perfect Taco, which is actually pretty brilliant, and they polish off all but three of the tacos they make.

“They leave you alone up here?” asks Tony.

“Nah, Bucky’s around. Somewhere. He was upstairs, with me, uh, while I napped,” says Peter, feeling a flush creep up his neck.

“Oh, really?” asks Tony, a small smile creeping over his lips. “Harley says he gives good backrubs.”

Peter shrugs and takes his plate to the sink.

“So is he going to ride you down to the stables, or what?” asks Tony.

“I- actually, that’s a really good question,” admits Peter. “I should go find him. Harley usually helps me, but he’s out with Steve.”

“Tantrum and Shield are better matched than Patches,” agrees Tony. “Although Bucky’s almost got Patches where she needs to be, to join the general population.”

“Steve said Patches was nervy,” says Peter.

“Bad handling,” says Tony, shaking his head. “I don’t- my grandpa used to say more horses and people are ruined by bad handling than are ever born with issues, and I guess I’ve never found that to be wrong.”

Peter thinks of John saying, _May can’t handle you_ , and swallows. Maybe that’s why he’s so weird. Maybe he’s been ruined, somehow, ruined by bad handling. Maybe all it takes is a couple of months of- of not having Ben around, of- or maybe it’s that he didn’t have parents, to handle him. Maybe, maybe-

“But then, the old bastard also said, _no such thing as untrainable_ ,” chuckles Tony, shaking his head. “And that’s been pretty much my experience, too. You know, he never gave up on any horse or dog, not ever? Not even the ones that bit him. He was seventy years old and taking a muzzled mutt up into the hills for a week, walking back down with the dog at his heels, sweet and eager to please.”

“Seen you walk down those hills with a kid trailing behind you the exact same way,” says Bucky, coming around the corner from the stairs. He pats Tony on the back absently as he walks by. “And grown men, too, for that matter.”

Tony shifts on the stool and mutters, “Not for years, now. I have to leave the heavy lifting to other people.”

“You’re split too tight, living too many lives, Tony,” Bucky mutters, pulling down a plate. “You eat? Peter, did he eat?”

“Four tacos,” reports Peter, before protesting, “Hey, no, you’re doing it wrong, that’s- Tony, show him how to make the perfect taco!”

“I tried,” sighs Tony, shaking his head. “Lord knows I tried. He’s a savage, Peter.”

“Something’s gotta give, Tony,” says Bucky bluntly, ignoring Peter’s spluttering giggle and putting his plate on the other side of the counter from them, leaning his hip against the cabinet and lifting the first taco. “You can’t keep doing this, you’re more worn out each time.” He takes a big bite and cocks an eyebrow at Tony.

“Well, gee, Bucky, thanks, I didn’t think of that myself,” says Tony, suddenly bitter in a way that makes Peter shift uncomfortably beside him. “I gave Pepper SI after all that shit with Obediah, and Jarvis pretty much runs the ranch, and-” he glances over at Peter before saying, “and everything else needs _me_.”

“Rhodey could handle-” begins Bucky.

“If Rhodey could do what _I_ do, I’d give it up in a heartbeat,” Tony says firmly. “I don’t _like_ leaving, I _hate_ it. You’ve met me. Do I look like the guy who sacrifices everything for the team? Do I look like the guy who pretends to be a superhero, trying to swoop around saving the day and putting out fires, to you?”

Bucky looks at Tony, his eyes serious and unwavering, swallows, and says, “Yeah, you need a campout more than the boys do, Tony.”

“I _know_ that,” snaps Tony. “I just _haven’t had time_.” He glares at Bucky and snatches his plate off of the counter, stalking to the sink and starting the water running.

 _A guy that busy probably shouldn’t be doing the dishes_ , thinks Peter distantly. Maybe he should offer to-?

“Peter, you still need to journal, yeah?” asks Bucky.

“Yes,” says Peter firmly, because he really, really doesn’t want to sit here and watch this.

“Well, go on,” says Bucky. “I’ll come get you, ride you down. I can saddle up the horses so you have a few extra minutes, even.”

“Okay. Thanks for- for lunch, Mr. Stark,” Peter offers to the man’s back.

“Yeah, it’s Tony, though,” mutters Tony, angrily.

“Tony. Thanks,” Peter says again, his eyes lingering on the hunched shoulders and jerky movements of the man before he flees for the stairs.

Steve’s studio feels weird without Steve in it, at the drafting table. Peter grabs his journal and pen and heads for the loft, instead. 

Harley’s blankets are all twirled and twisted and there’s no way he can even think about anything but this morning because it still, uh, smells, a little bit. Peter tosses Harley’s t-shirt in the hamper, grossed out by how it’s already kinda _stiff_ , and makes Harley’s bed because he has to. It’s not a choice. It’s a _need_.

There. That looks… better. More, uh, innocent. Yeah.

He cracks open the journal and writes, _Last night I cried again, dammit. At least I didn’t wake anybody but H up. I don’t- I don’t cry as much all day, but I still miss Ben, and Ned and May and-_

And then he stops writing.

May. May’s letter.

His heart in his throat, he walks over to his dresser and pulls the suitcase from the side, digging in the pockets until his fingers feel paper rustle.

He settles on the bed, cross-legged, and just holds it for a minute.

Maybe he’s ruined, maybe he was always going to be ruined, because his parents didn’t- they dumped him on people who didn’t _want_ kids. That’s how Ben and May always tell the story, with a laugh, _Well, we weren’t planning on any kids, but Peter’s not just any kid_. They didn’t _want_ him, but he got dumped on them, and maybe that’s why he’s ruined and weird. 

But May and- and Ben, they always loved him, anyway. They never made him feel like he was ruined.

Well.

Not usually. 

_You’re just like your parents_ , Ben had sighed, that night, when he’d followed Peter to the cage fight.

And then, the months of quiet fights, before Ben had gone out that night, gone out and- 

Peter sniffs and thinks of Tony saying, _Do I look like a guy pretending to be a superhero?_

Yeah. Peter’s not that guy, either.

He can’t even pretend to be a superhero, not when- not when he had the ability to stop that guy with the gun, but he hadn’t been there, he’d been messing around with Ned, building robots in Ned’s basement bedroom. Messing around with Ned and robots because he was actively avoiding being in their house, where everything was quiet and polite and cold, those days. Cold and quiet, and not very- not very much like the home they’d made it into, for him. 

A fat splatter of water on the paper startles him and makes him roll his eyes. Could he _be_ more pathetic?

He opens the letter.

_Dearest Peter,_

He has to look up and breathe, breathe deeply, because he can hear her voice. She’d called him that, at bedtime, and every time he’d confessed to not being good enough to win, or- or to make the right choice, she’d always brushed his hair back and said, “Dearest Peter, what are we going to do with you?”

Ship him to strangers fifteen states away, apparently.

_This isn’t fair to you. I can’t think of any way to make any of this fair to you._

Peter’s vision blurs and he has to blink and rub at his eyes, because he has to keep reading, now that he’s started.

 _It’s not fair that you have to take care of me, now, that I can’t make you dinner or even get out of bed, some days. None of that is fair, and it’s not what Ben would have wanted, but maybe you’ll understand, although, writing that, I hope not anytime soon. But maybe someday, when you’re old, you’ll understand what it’s like to suddenly not have your other half, and you’ll be able to forgive me for not having the strength you need right now_.

“I do forgive you,” whispers Peter, and then he has to put the letter down, and grab the pillow from behind him on the bed, and press his face into it, and feel the scratchy touch of home. Aunt May doesn’t believe in chemical softeners, like she doesn’t believe in dryer sheets, and she- and she- and she doesn’t believe that Peter’s _good_ enough to love her no matter what. He doesn’t need to forgive her, he _understands_ , he- they loved each other so much, it was such a constant in Peter’s life, that two people could love each other as much as Ben and May did. It’s- it’s okay, that she can’t- that she’s not the same, he _wants_ her to not be the same, and he can- he was trying to help her, he was trying to hold her up, the way- the way that-

The way that _Ben_ did.

But Peter’s not like Ben.

And so May didn’t have the strength she needed, to get out of bed some days.

Peter sobs into the pillow a little, his chest tight and his feet kicking a little, because it’s not _fair_ , she’s right. He tried, and his best wasn’t good enough, and he couldn’t _help_ her enough, and that’s- that’s not _fair_. That’s not supposed to be the way it works. If you try hard enough, it should work. But maybe when you’re maybe ruined and maybe troubled and definitely weird, maybe no matter how hard you try, it’s not- you’re not- good enough.

Peter can’t breathe, after that thought. He can’t breathe, and then suddenly he can’t think, and he doesn’t want anyone to hear him, so he buries his face in the pillow and sobs as quietly as he can.

He kind of always knew that, though. So it’s not a surprise.

You don’t leave a kid who’s good enough.

Eventually, he wants to read the rest of it, because there’s so much more, she wrote so much, so he takes deep breaths and puts the pillow in his lap, and picks up the paper again, with hands that he decides aren’t shaking, because that’d be stupid. 

_John says that this will be a break for you, and I can see that. I can see how much you have to do, around here, how responsible you feel for everything. How staying here, you’ll work yourself to the bone, trying to make everything better, dearest Peter._

_I know you know that Ben and I were fighting over what to do. Ben thought a break would be good for you, too. He thought you needed a break from the city and all the problems, here. He knew all about the ranch, had talked to everyone, was researching it even though I was fighting him every step of the way._

_Well. Maybe I was wrong, to fight him about it, and selfish, to want to keep you near._

_I still want to keep you near, Peter. I still want to fight him and fight John, and keep you right here._

_But Ben’s not here to fight back, and it seems infinitely more cruel, right now, to keep fighting, to keep being selfish, when he can’t fight back, Peter. I don’t want to win by default._

_I love you so much, dearest Peter. I will miss you every day, and not for the laundry or the garbage or the chicken soup. For your sweet heart and your hope for tomorrow, for how you look to protect everyone from everything, for how you believe that everyone can be better. I will miss you, selfishly, every day, my little superman, who is not so little anymore, but still super._

_Come home when you can, and carry my love for you like a cape, while you’re away. I know you think they’re unsafe, but they keep the rain off. Just don’t stand in front of airplane engines._

_Love,_

_Your Aunt May_

_P.S. Ben and John both reassured me that you can call every Sunday, and I will live for those phone calls, so you better not miss a single one, Peter Parker._

There are a lot more drops of water, now, when Peter pushes the letter away from him, lets it fall and kicks at it, stretching out and shoving his face into the pillow and the comfort of home.

When he’d been five, and going to kindergarten for the first time, he’d cried and cried and cried, every day, when Aunt May dropped him off. He can’t remember it, not really. Only dimly. He’d cried and had to sit with the assistant teacher, while the other kids looked at him scornfully and called him a crybaby. Uncle Ben had tried to talk to him, Uncle John had tried to talk to him, Aunt Sarah had tried to talk to him, and everyone was getting so _worried_ about him 

And then, one day, there’d been another teacher in the room.

“Hi, Peter,” she’d said, her blue eyes bright and happy to see him. He’d shrunk against May’s leg, already crying and clinging there. “I need your help,” she’d said, seriously.

“My help?” he’d whispered.

“Yeah. I have a project, and I hear you’re a reader, you can read, right?” she’d asked happily.

He’d buried his face in May’s pants.

“Yes, Peter can read,” May had said, with false cheerfulness.

“I need someone to come help me, in my office, do you think you can do that?” she’d asked. “You and May, can you come with me?”

“May’s coming?” he’d asked suspiciously.

“Yup. Need her, too,” the woman had reassured him.

“Okay. If May can come,” he said.

“Can’t do it without her,” she said.

They’d gone to her office, and there were superheroes all over the walls, saying things like, “Wash Your Hands” and “Drink Milk!” and “Be The Kind Of Friend A Friend Needs.” Peter stared at the posters, turning all around to look at them. There was Captain America with Bucky Barnes, high fiving, and Dum Dum Dugan with a milk mustache over his big fluffy one, and Howard Stark, holding up one clean hand and one very, very dirty hand.

“Wow,” Peter said.

“Oh, you like superheroes?” she’d asked

“Oh, yeah, Captain America is my favorite,” he’d told her.

“I like Howard Stark,” she’d said. 

He’d screwed up his face and told her, judiciously, “He’s okay, but Ben says he makes bad choices sometimes, so he’s not a good role model.”

“Sure, I can see that,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Here, Aunt May, sit down. We’re going to write a book, Peter.”

“Wow,” Peter had gasped, propping himself next to Aunt May in the big chair by the desk. “A whole book?”

“You bet,” the woman had confirmed. She pulled a real book, with a hard cover and everything, but blank pages, from a drawer. “We’re going to call it, Peter the Superhero at School.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Aunt May. And she really did sound _interested_ , Peter remembers.

They’d worked on the book all day, and Peter can’t imagine how much that school counselor had to clear from her schedule for this one kid, but, well. It paid off. He’d thanked her when he won the Young Geniuses grant. 

The book had contained adventures like, Peter Help Kids on the Playground, and Peter Says See Ya Later at the Door, and Peter Writes Love Notes To Help May and Ben Feel Better.

Peter the Superhero wore a red cape, because Peter thought that’s what made you fly, and if Captain America had had a cape, he wouldn’t have crashed into the ocean and died. Bucky wouldn’t have fallen off the train and died, if he’d had a cape. So Peter the Superhero wore a cape, and the first page said, _he wore an invisible cape made of all the love people felt about him, so he could always feel it._

The other kids had to learn the alphabet, still, and so while they did that every day, Peter sat with the assistant teacher, or the other woman, whose name was Ms. Barry, and wrote all the adventures of Peter the Superhero. He still has them, on a shelf in his-

Well. No.

Probably packed away, by now.

Peter holds the pillow to his stomach, sitting up to glare at the letter, sniffing back tears and feeling his stomach tremble.

It’s not like that. It’s not like Peter’s crying because it’s his first day of school, and he’s scared to leave Aunt May because she may just not come back, and it’s not like he can just write a story and make _Ben’s death_ better. It’s not like- not like any of those stories ever came true. They were just stories, just stories he told when he was a dumb kid and he thought he could be anything.

Peter knows he can’t- he’s older now, and he knows _he can’t_.

 _Catch Captain America beating up punks for money_ , Uncle Ben had scoffed.

And he’d been right.

 _Do I look like a guy pretending to be a superhero?_ Tony had snarled, downstairs.

Peter winces and whispers, “Not me. I don’t. Not anymore, anyway.” He doesn’t lie, he’d learned that, at least, from Uncle Ben, over and over again. How to face the truth straight on, and not lie, at least to yourself, even when it was hard. He thinks guiltily of sneaking out at midnight, but it isn’t lying if- if no one _asks_ about it, Peter tells himself firmly. He never _lied_ about it. He just didn’t tell the whole truth, maybe. Something about that sits wrong, but he shrugs it off. He’s not trying to be a superhero anymore, anyway.

He reaches out and folds the letter again, and slides it into the pillowcase. He can’t put it back in the suitcase, not now that he’s read it.

There’s a new weight on his shoulders, as he picks up the journal, because he has to write so much, today, so much today has to be encoded and written and he’s exhausted just thinking about it.

The new weight settles there, because _Aunt May wants him_. She didn’t _dump_ him here, she didn’t- she fought to keep him by her. And, yeah, John won, John and Ben won, sure. But John only won because she’s not strong, just now. Because she was Ben’s other half and she has to learn how to be one half of one, now, and that’s gotta be hard. 

It’s not like living here is killing Peter. He can- he can keep doing it, until she’s got her stuff a little more figured out.

Sunday is five days away.

He’s gotta figure out how to help May get better, from fifteen states away, in five days.

Okay.

He picks up the journal, and looks at the page.

_Last night I cried again, dammit. At least I didn’t wake anybody but H up. I don’t- I don’t cry as much all day, but I still miss Ben, and Ned and May and-_

_-and I have to get to work,_ he writes firmly. He continues, _There’s gotta be some way to help May, even from way out here. I wish I could access the internet, I bet there’s tons of resources on grief. Maybe I should tell her about journaling, on Sunday? S says it worked for him and for B._

He’s still writing about his day, furiously, when Bucky calls from the bottom of the ladder, out of sight, “Hate to interrupt, but Karen knows it’s time and she’s getting feisty, pushed me toward the gate and almost up over it, wanted me to get you.”

Peter puts the pen in the journal and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, be right there,” he says, scrubbing at his face. “Be- be right there.”

The pillow crinkles when he sets it down, May’s letter tucked safely inside it.

The weight on his shoulders is still there, when he scrambles for the ladder, and when he climbs down it.

“You okay, Peter?” asks Bucky, his hand reaching out to touch Peter’s cheek.

“Oh, do I look like shit?” asks Peter, distracted. “I- I’m good, but I- there was crying.”

“You look fine. Eye’s’re just a little red,” Bucky informs him. “How’s the butt?”

“Fine,” says Peter, a little shocked because it’s true. It really is fine.

Bucky hums, and turns, walking toward the stairs as he mutters, “Well, let’s go. I hear Natasha thinks you and Karen are ready for some faster speeds.”

Peter feels himself bounce on his feet for a second, because he’s _totally_ ready and he knows Karen is, too, and then he races to catch up.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, y'all. I'm a little sick, NOBODY PANIC, IT'S JUST A SINUS INFECTION, but it makes it hard to concentrate on anything. So, don't expect anything out of me for a little bit, as I work through that. I just don't have the attention span I need to right now. If you get worried about me, there's all the ways to connect with me on my profile page, and I promise I don't bite unless asked really nicely.


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